The bleachers are quiet except for the distant hum of the wind. Tim sits beside them, his knee barely brushing theirs, the sunset painting everything in soft golds and pinks.

He glances at them—calm, content, the corners of their lips curled in a small smile. The sight makes something warm settle in his chest.

He could tell them. He wants to tell them.

But instead, he sighs dramatically and lets his head fall onto their shoulder. “Ugh. I think I’m dying. You should carry me home.”

His fingers find theirs, lacing together.

Tim smiles. Maybe he is not going to tell them everything, not yet. But this is enough.